Poems by Marietta Holley Part 3

I am sure it is nothing wrong, Nothing to think of--and yet I know I lured him with glance and song, Into my shining net; Provokingly cold at first he seemed, Like crystal to smiles and sighs, But at last he felt the magic that gleamed In my dreamy violet eyes.

And I led him on and on, Farther, in truth, than I strove, For he frightened me with the earnestness And violence of his love; These calm-eyed men deceive-- Had I known the man had a heart, I would have paused, I would, I believe, Have acted a different part.

In his royal indignation He uttered some wholesome truth-- He almost roused the emotion That died in my innocent youth; Emotion that lived when life was new, Ere that man my pathway crossed, Who played me a game untrue, When I staked all my love, and lost.

Oh for a saintly beauty, What efforts my soul did make; I thought all goodness and purity Were possible for his sake; The world seemed born anew, my life Such holy meaning wore, I fancy so fair and fond a dream Never fell into ruins before.

He toyed with my fresh affection As he breathed the country air, To refresh him after a season Of fashion, and falsehood, and glare; Had he not slain my tenderness, Had my life been more sweet, I might have known n.o.bler happiness Than to humble men to my feet.

But now I love to lure them on, To make them slaves to my gaze, Like serfs to a conqueror's chariot, Like moths to a candle-blaze.

I melt most royally time, the pearl, And quaff the cup like a queen, And forget in the dizzy tumult and whirl, The woman I might have been.

LITTLE NELL.

Clasp your arms round her neck to-night, Little Nell, Arms so delicate, soft and white, And yet so strong in love's strange might; Clasp them around the kneeling form, Fold them tenderly close and warm, And who can tell But such slight links may draw her back, Away from the fatal, fatal track; Who can tell, Little Nell?

Press your lips to the lips of snow, Little Nell; Oh baby heart, may you never know The anguish that makes them quiver so; But now in her weakness and mortal pain, Let your kisses fall like a dewy rain, And who can tell But your innocent love, your childish kiss May lure her back from the dread abyss; Who can tell, Little Nell.

Lay your cheek on her aching breast, Little Nell; To you 'tis a refuge of holy rest, But a dying bird never drooped its crest With a deadlier pain in its wounded heart; Ah! love's sweet links may be torn apart, Little Nell; The altar may flame with gems and gold, And splendor be bought, and peace be sold, But is it well, Little Nell?

Veil her face with your tresses bright, Little Nell; Hide that vision out of her sight-- Those dark dark eyes with their tender light-- Uplift your pure face, can it be She will bid farewell to heaven and thee, Little Nell?

No; your mute lips plead with eloquent power, Her tears fall like a tropic shower; All is well, Little Nell.

Close your blue eyes now in sleep, Little Nell; Her angel smiles to see her weep; At morn a ship will cleave the deep, And one alone will be borne away, And one will clasp thee close, and pray; Oh Little Nell, Never, never beneath the sun, Will you dream what you this night have done, Done so well, Little Nell.

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

A long, low waste of yellow sand Lay shining northward far as eye could reach, Southward a rocky bluff rose high Broken in wild, fantastic shapes.

Near by, one jagged rock towered high, And o'er the waters leaned, like giant grim, Striving to peer into the mysteries The ocean whispers of continually, And covers with her soft, treacherous face.

For the rest, the sun was sinking low Like a great golden globe, into the sea; Above the rock a bird was flying In dizzy circles, with shrill cries, And on a plank floated from some wreck, With shreds of musty seaweed Clinging to it yet, a woman sat Holding a child within her arms; A sweet-faced woman--looking out to sea With dark, patient eyes, and singing to the child, And this the song she in the sunset sang:

Thine eyes are brown, my beauty, brown and bright, Drowned deep in languor now, the angel Sleep Is clasping thee within her arms so white, Bearing thee up the dreamland's sunny steep.

Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father's boat, I see its swaying shroud Like a white sea-gull, swinging to and fro Against the ledges of a crimson cloud, A tiny bird with flutt'ring wing of snow.

Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thy father toils beyond the harbor bar, And, singing at his toil, he thinks of thee; Lit by the red lamp of the evening star Home will he come, will come to thee and me, Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

His cabin shall be bright with flowers sweet, The table shall be set, the fire shall glow, We'll wait within the door, his coming steps to greet, And if my eye be sad, he will not know-- Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

He will not pause to ponder things so slight, He is not one a smile to prize or miss; Yet he would shield us with a strong arm's might, And he will meet us with a loving kiss-- Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

But would I could forget those other days When if with gayer gleam mine eyes had shone, Or shade of sorrow, gentlest eyes would gaze With tender questioning into my own.

Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Thine eyes are brown--thou hast thy father's eyes, But those, my darling, those were clear and blue, Ah, me! how sorrowfully that sea-bird cries, Cries for its mate, oh, tender bird and true; My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Oh, of my truest love well worthy he, And near was I, ah, nearest to his heart; But ships are parted on the dreary sea Swept by the waves, forever swept apart-- Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

And sometimes sad-eyed women sighing say, Sweet love is lost, all that remains is rest, So in their weakness they are lured to lay Their head upon some strong and loving breast.

Oh, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

Our cabin stands upon the dreary sands, And it is sad to be alone, alone.

But on my bosom thou hast lain thy hands, Near to me art thou, near, my precious one-- My, baby, sleep, my baby, sleep.

The red light faded as she sung, A chill breeze rose and swept across the sea, She drew her cloak still closer round the child, And turned toward the cabin; As she went a faint glow glimmered In the east, and slowly rose-- The silver crescent of the moon.

Another, paler light, than the warm sunset glow, But clear enough to guide her home.

THE LAND OF LONG AGO.

Now while the crimson light fades in the west, And twilight drops her purple shadows low-- We stand with Memory on the mountain's crest, That overlooks the land of Long Ago.

Unmoved and still the form beside us stands, While mournful tears our heavy eyes o'erflow, As silently he lifts his shadowy hands, And points us to the land of Long Ago.

It lies in beauty 'neath our sad eyes' range, Bathed in a richer light, a warmer glow; For fairer moons, and sunsets rare and strange, Illume the landscape of the Long Ago.

We see its vales of peace, its hills of light Shine in the rosy air, ah! well we know-- That nevermore will bless our yearning sight, So fair and dear a land as Long Ago.

We see the gleaming spires of those high halls We garnished with bright gems and precious show; No foot within the gilded doorway falls, Empty the rooms within the Long Ago.

Troops of white doves still haunt the shining towers, And fold in blissful calm, their wings of snow; We bade them build their nests in brighter bowers, But still they linger in the Long Ago.

There in its sunny bay stand stately ships, We freighted for fair lands where we would go; Still gleams our gold within their secret crypts, Becalmed beside the sh.o.r.e of Long Ago.

Between that land and this of dread and doubt, The silent years have drifted trackless snow; Hiding the pathway where we wandered out, Forever from the land of Long Ago.

LEMOINE.

In the unquiet night, With all her beauty bright, She walketh my silent chamber to and fro; Not twice of the same mind, Sometimes unkind--unkind, And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.

Such madness of mirth lies In the haunting hazel eyes, When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night; Its glamour as of old My charmed senses hold, Forget I earth and heaven in the pleasures of sense and sight.

With sudden gay caprice Quaint sonnets doth she seize, Wedding them unto sweetness, falling from crimson lips; Holding the broidered flowers Of those enchanted hours, When she wound my will with her silk round her white finger-tips.

Then doth she silent stand, Lifting her slender hand, On which gleams the ring I tore from his hand at Baywood; The tiny opal hearts Are broken in two parts, And where the ruby burned there hangeth a drop of blood.